“Por Dios!” adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same sonorous tongue. “I’ve heard that he keeps a cellar. If so—”
The chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical speech. The thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect upon him—stimulating to immediate action.
He sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it open.
It resists the effort.
“Carrambo! it’s barred inside! Done to keep out intruders in his absence! Lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes—perhaps Indians. Ha! ha! ha!”
Another kick is given with greater force. The door still keeps its place.
“Barricaded with something—something heavy too. It won’t yield to kicking. No matter. I’ll soon see what’s inside.”
The macheté is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood.
Into this the Indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction.
The packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open.